


take my mind and take my pain

by thestarsabove



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Mentions of Violence, but brief and not graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-10 12:07:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5584828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thestarsabove/pseuds/thestarsabove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lydia has a nightmare. She and Stiles make a pact.</p>
            </blockquote>





	take my mind and take my pain

**Author's Note:**

> A little Stydia to get you in the mood as the new season approaches... Set some time during season 4 or early season 5, but in a world where Stiles and Malia are broken up. 
> 
> Title comes from "Heal" by Tom Odell.

Lydia wakes up screaming.

The sound is ripped from her lungs, jolting her into consciousness and echoing around the darkened walls of her bedroom. She claws at her blankets, heels slipping over satin-y sheets until the scream dies in her throat and is replaced by frantic, staccato breathing.

It happens so frequently now that her mom doesn't even come in to check on her anymore - just lets Lydia scream herself awake and then cry herself back to sleep, head swimming with nightmares that she can barely distinguish from reality. Sometimes it's Peter that she's dreaming of, sometimes Jennifer and the sharp burn of a rope against her throat. Mostly it's Allison, brave, radiant Allison, and again and again Lydia wakes up with her best friend's death on her tongue.

Tonight, though, is something else entirely, a fresh horror playing out in the depths of her subconscious. Instead of Allison, it's Stiles, his amber eyes widening as an oni sword plunges into his stomach, dropping to his knees as Scott rushes to his side. Lydia stands by, powerless as always to save him - to save anyone - screaming a warning that is always, always, always too late.

When she comes to her senses she's alone in her bedroom, and the white moonlight and gentle breeze spilling through her window seem unnaturally peaceful compared to the chaotic state of her mind. It was just a dream, of course, but she doesn't even know what that's supposed to mean anymore, or if she should take it as a comfort - not now that she's found herself in the business of predicting other people's deaths. Panic curls through her stomach and seeps into her brain, and all at once she's scrambling for her phone, frantic fingers jabbing at Stiles' number. The phone rings and rings before going to voicemail, the familiar warmth of his voice playing in her ear. With tears stinging her eyes, she immediately hangs up and redials. By the third time she calls with no answer, she's out of bed and fumbling around in the darkness for her car keys. She tries Scott twice, also with no luck, and then resumes calling Stiles while she drives to his house, breaking several traffic laws on her way.

It's an honest-to-god miracle that she makes it across town without getting into an accident. The Stilinski house looks dark but undisturbed from the outside, resting squat and gray atop a small but tidy front lawn. In the pale moonlight, she can see that the jeep is there, parked as usual in the driveway beside the sheriff's police car. Nothing seems out of place or suspicious, and yet Lydia's whole body is shaking as she stumbles up the path to the front door. It's only as she feels the smooth coolness of the stones beneath her feet that she realizes she forgot to put shoes on. God, she really is going off the deep end.

Her finger has only just hit the doorbell when she feels her phone vibrate in her hand, Stiles' name lighting up on the screen.

"Hello?" she says desperately, her voice ragged as she presses the phone to her ear. She nearly collapses in relief at the sound of his voice, panicked and talking a mile a minute.

"Lydia? Lydia, are you okay? What's going on, why have you b-"

The front door opens and Stiles appears, phone against his ear, eyes wild and hair disheveled. He's dressed in plaid pajama pants and a plaid flannel that clash spectacularly, the flannel hanging loose and open against his bare chest. Other than the expression of confused terror on his face, he looks to be very much alive and well.

He brings the phone down and surges towards her, hands coming to rest on her shoulders as his eyes search her face for a clue to what's going on. "Are you okay?" he asks again, his tone urgent.

Lydia nods numbly, still weak with relief even as she begins to feel the first twinges of embarrassment. He's here, he's fine, he's _fine_  - it had only been a dream. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine, I'm sorry," she says, shaking her head. "Everything's fine, I'm sorry for freaking you out."

"Are you sure?" His face is shadowed, illuminated only by the dim glow of the overhead light in the hallway behind him, but from what she can see he looks unconvinced - understandable seeing as she had just called him approximately 97 times and showed up at his house at 1 o'clock in the morning dressed only her pajamas. Without any shoes on. _God_.

She runs a hand through her hair, starting to feel really kind of ridiculous now that she knows he's okay. "Yeah, I just - I had a nightmare, and you - " she swallows, and her throat still feels raw from screaming. "It was just like what happened to Allison. The oni's sword, right - "

She reaches forward, her fingers skimming over his abdomen, exactly where the sword had pierced him in her dream. His skin is taut and unmarred, warm beneath her fingertips and dusted by a faint trail of dark hair.

Stiles sucks in a breath, bringing her back to the present, and her eyes dart up to his face. He's watching her closely, lips parted slightly, something like wonder sketched in his features, and all at once she is struck by the intimacy of her own gesture. She thinks that she could probably kiss him right now, just lift up on her tiptoes and do it, finally. She doesn't, though; instead, she takes a step backwards, retracting her hand.

"Sorry," she says again, looking away. She forgets, sometimes, the effect she has on him - still, after so long.

He shakes his head, frowning. "No, Lydia, don't - don't be sorry," he says, speaking in that sincere tone of his that always makes her heart ache. "I'm sorry you had that dream. And, I mean - thanks for coming to check on me." He gives her a small smile.

"Of course," she nods, her voice breaking a little more than she'd like it to. God, how fucked up is it that she's standing on Stiles' front step in the middle of the night and he's just thanked her for coming over to make sure he wasn't murdered by a Japanese demon? When the hell did their lives become this?

"Wanna come in?" he asks, just as she's thinking she should probably go. He looks at her almost hopefully, his expression reminiscent of the way he used to look at her in earlier, more innocent times. "It's not like either of us is going to get a good night's sleep tonight anyway," he adds, almost resignedly, and just like that Lydia is reminded of how much he's changed since then, how much heaviness he carries with him now.

Lydia exhales on a morbid laugh and nods, stepping inside. Stiles shuts the door behind her and then leads the way into the kitchen, flicking on light switches as he goes. The house is quiet and still, and she's grateful that at least Sheriff Stilinski seems to have slept through her little outburst.

Stiles gestures for her to sit down while he makes some tea, but instead she follows him to the counter and starts silently passing him the things he needs. He shoots her a sideways glance, his lips quirking up slightly, fondly; she smiles back. She's not sure when it was that she became so familiar with the Stilinski kitchen, but she truly notices it for the first time now, how comfortable she feels here. The realization makes her feel warm in a way she hasn't been since Allison.

"I'm going to go put a shirt on," Stiles announces when the mugs have been poured and the tea set to steep. "Sorry, this was just the first thing I grabbed - " he clears his throat and tugs the flannel closed over his torso, looking vaguely embarrassed. Lydia thinks it's probably a good thing that he's changing, as her eyes have been catching a bit too frequently on the way his pajama bottoms ride low on his hips, that dark trail of hair disappearing below the waistline.

"Do you want, like, socks or something?" he asks. "Or a sweatshirt?"

Lydia glances down at her bare feet, at the pale purple nail polish standing out against her fair skin. She'd actually almost forgotten about them until now, and if this weren't Stiles, she'd be surprised he even noticed.

"Socks would be good," she says gratefully, wiggling her toes against the cool kitchen floor. "Thanks."

"Sure thing." He disappears up the stairs, and Lydia takes both mugs of tea and seats herself at the kitchen table. Crossing her legs, she gazes around the kitchen, taking in the brown wooden cabinets and the off-white counters, the stainless steel sink set below a window that looks out on the house next door. It's simple and not particularly fashionable, but there's a warmth to it, a quality that makes you feel at home - sort of like Stiles himself. Lydia realizes with a twinge that with the possible exception of some new appliances, they probably haven't changed a thing since Stiles's mom died.

She hears a sound on the stairs and Stiles re-emerges moments later, now (rather regrettably) dressed in a gray t-shirt and carrying a pair of socks that he thrusts towards her rather sheepishly. "Uh, here," he says as she takes the socks and studies them. "Sorry, they're the nicest ones I have..."

The socks are slightly worn-out but also clean and soft, Lydia notes as she unfurls them. She bites back a smile when she realizes what the pattern is - navy blue adorned with the faces of Santa and his reindeer. "They're cute," she says, lips twitching even as she pulls the socks on to her feet.

"Melissa got them for me for our eighth grade music recital," Stiles explains. "I didn't have any nice socks so she brought me shopping with her and Scott."

Lydia remembers the 8th grade recital - it was her last one, back when she still played the violin. She had been pretty good at it, too - the perfectionist in her couldn't help it - until she gave it up to focus her attention on things like boys and being popular. She had taken that recital seriously, though, had practiced hard and spent hours picking out the perfect outfit to wear. The final ensemble had consisted of a silky black ribbon for her hair, a white button-up blouse, and a flouncy, dangerously short black skirt that she wore with a brand-spanking-new pair of heeled Mary-Janes. She wasn't really wearing heels much at that age, but she and her mom had bought them specially for the recital, and she still remembers the way Jackson's eyes had fixed on her legs and widened slightly when he saw her. They weren't even together then, still just friends, but two weeks later he kissed her at midnight on New Year's Eve and they started dating the next day.

She doesn't have any memories of Stiles at the recital, which isn't particularly surprising, but she thinks if she asked him now he would probably remember that outfit too, and maybe even the solo she played. It breaks her heart a little, though, imagining him tagging along with Scott and his mother because he didn't have a mom of his own to do things like remember to buy him dress socks. Things like that explain so much about the relationship between him and Scott, how like brothers they are, and how Melissa seems to serve as almost a surrogate mother.

"Well, she chose well," Lydia says, letting him off the hook. "They're very comfy."

Stiles grins and sits down beside her, wrapping long fingers around his mug of tea. They sit in silence for maybe 30 seconds, sipping on their drinks, before he says: "So, do you want to talk about it?"

Lydia sighs. "Not really."

"Fair enough," he says, nodding. He fidgets a little, takes another sip of tea, and then continues. The words spill out of his mouth almost as if he physically cannot contain them. "But I guess this means you'd be pretty upset if I died, right?"

She eyes him somewhat incredulously - because really?! - a sarcastic response on the tip of her tongue. But then she remembers the soft, dorky socks on her feet, the chipped mug of tea in her hands, and the fact that he had barely even blinked when she showed up at his house in the middle of the night, panicked over a nightmare like a foolish little girl. So instead she meets his gaze and says, simply: "I think I'd go out of my freakin' mind."

And honestly, it's true. As if she's not far enough out of her mind already.

There's a moment when Stiles's eyes widen, his mouth falling open slightly as he registers her response. Then his lips press back together in a sad sort of smile, one that's somehow laced with hope and resignation at the same time. He drops his gaze from hers briefly, and when he glances back up, there is determination in his eyes that she's not entirely accustomed to seeing.

"Okay, so let's make a pact," he says, setting his mug down on the table with a quiet thunk. He grabs the leg of her chair and pulls her closer, until their knees are knocking together and Lydia's heart is thumping a little harder in her chest. "Pinky promise." He curls his hand into a loose fist between them, pinky extended.

Lydia raises her eyebrows in nonplussed confusion, glancing pointedly between his face and the proffered finger.

"Just go with it," he sighs.

She shrugs, bringing her hand up and wrapping her pinky around his, breath catching in her throat when their eyes meet again.

"No dying," he says.

She looks at him skeptically. "How can we possibly swear to that?"

"Come _on_ , Lydia," he implores, a familiar trace of impatience in his voice, the one he gets when he knows she's challenging him on purpose.

Lydia rolls her eyes but nods anyway. "Fine. No dying."

"And no getting possessed."

Lydia snorts at that; she can't even help herself. "By ancient trickster spirits or sociopathic supposedly dead werewolf uncles," she elaborates.

"No, none of that," Stiles says, an amused smile tugging at his lips.

"No being almost dead in a tub of ice for 16 hours."

"No being kidnapped by a nogitsune."

"No nogitsunes, period," Lydia clarifies. "And no stepping into a pool of oil inches away from an open flame."

"No jumping into said pool the moment the open flame actually reaches it," Stiles fires back.

"No attemtping to fight supernatural creatures with a baseball bat!"

Stiles stares at her, his expression utterly affronted.

"Just go with it," she smirks, mimicking him.

He makes a decidedly "not amused" face but nods.

"Fine." His expession shifts into something vaguely triumphant, and he returns: "No more dating kanimas."

"To be fair, he wasn't a kanima when I started dating him," Lydia counters.

Stiles looks nonplussed.

Chuckling, Lydia thinks for a moment, then says: "No more running around naked in the woods for two days."

"Well, maybe if I'm allowed to watch," Stiles says, his tone thoughtful.

Lydia gapes at him, more surprised than offended, and watches the panic slide over his face as he realizes what he's said. Then she starts giggling uncontrollably and rather than apologize, he shoots her a grin that suggests he is both relieved and somewhat pleased with himself.

"We'll call that one circumstantial," Lydia says once she's regained her composure, quirking an eyebrow at Stiles. He blushes faintly but doesn't drop his gaze.

"No more negotiating with Mexican werewolf hunters," he says, clearing his throat.

"And no more chasing mass murderers into electrical plants."

"No more trips to Eichen House."

"Never," Lydia says softly, squeezing his hand.

"Anything else you'd like to add?"

She shakes her head. "I think we've pretty much covered it."

"Alright, let's swear on it." He raises their linked pinkies and they both lean forward, sealing the promise with a kiss to the sides of their own fists. Their eyes lock for what feels like the hundredth time that night, warm amber staring back at her, and when their hands fall away, neither of them leans back. The kitchen is silent around them, and Lydia lets it soothe the racket in her own mind, lets it ground her in this moment and this person in front of her. She knows, now, what she wants to do - what she's been meaning to do for months, it feels like. Tipping her head slightly to the side, she doesn't hesitate, just closes the distance between them and kisses him - finally, finally.

It's not heated or urgent, not even particularly dramatic for something that feels like it's been building for so long. It's just a light press of her lips to his - soft and dry, but deliberate. She feels his surprise in the way his mouth momentarily freezes against hers, but then he responds, lips parting to kiss her back. He tastes like earl grey tea and home and more than anything, in those first few moments, she feels relief - not that he still seems to want her back, but that after all this time spent wondering, it feels right.

Their fingers curl loosely together, hot over her right knee, and he brings his other hand up to cup the side of her face, brushing lightly over her cheekbone. She remembers him touching her like this the night her ear had started bleeding, remembers remarking even then at how tender this frantic, brilliant boy could be. It's always been him, she thinks, even when it wasn't.

Stiles inhales sharply when her tongue slides deftly into his mouth, and there is heat in her stomach at the way he responds to her, at the feel of his hand shaking when it tightens around hers. Lydia remembers abruptly that she's not wearing a bra under her sleep shirt, and wonders how Stiles might react if he knew, how his hands would feel on her skin if she guided them under her shirt. She's acutely aware of the places where their legs are pressed together, can feel the heat of his body through the soft, thin fabric of his pajama pants.

Stiles pulls away first, furrowed brow and somewhat stunned expression almost identical to the first time they had kissed, in the locker room during his panic attack. She wishes he would stop being so surprised by her kissing him, although she supposes she doesn't really have anyone but herself to blame for that.

"Lydia, what - " He stops, swallows. His eyes are scanning her face, and she can see he's trying to piece it together, struggling to understand if there's a logical explanation he's missing. "What was that for?"

She opens her mouth to respond without even knowing what she's going to say, but then her phone starts buzzing on the table between them, making them both jump slightly. It's Scott calling, and suddenly she remembers why she's here in the first place, how she ended up making out with Stiles in his kitchen at one in the morning on a Sunday.

"Hi," she says, answering the phone and throwing Stiles an apologetic look.

"Hey, is everything okay?" Scott asks. His voice is groggy but concerned, and she feels horrible for bothering him in the middle of the night. Scott has enough to worry about without false alarms. "I saw you called."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm sorry," she says. She realizes then that she and Stiles are still holding hands. "It was stupid, I had a nightmare and got freaked out."

"Okay, and you're sure you're fine?" Scott probes, still sounding worried. Lydia kind of loves him for it. "It wasn't like - a premonition, or anything?"

"No, I - I checked," she explains, and tries not to stammer over her next words. "It was about Stiles, but he's fine." Stiles squeezes her hand and she looks up at him, smiling weakly.

"You talked to him?"

She pauses. "I'm with him, actually."

"You're with Stiles?" Scott asks, and she hears a shift in his tone, a trace of eager curiosity entering his voice. "Like, at his house?"

Lydia can't stop her lips from twitching slightly as she replies. "At his house, yes." Stiles looks faintly alarmed now, and before she can say anything else, he grabs the phone from her, pressing it to his ear.

"Hey, dude, we're gonna go now," he says a bit frantically. "Yep, I'm all good, promise... No, I'm not going - shut up... Yes, I'm aware, thank you... _Thank you_ , I'm going now... Yeah, yeah, love you too, goodbye." Stiles ends the call and hands the phone back to Lydia, looking sheepish. "Sorry about that."

Lydia shakes her her head, supressing a smile. "Don't worry." She clears her throat. "I called him earlier, obviously."

"Yeah."

Stiles is watching her closely, probably waiting to see if she remembers what they'd been talking about right before Scott's call. She knows she owes him some kind of explanation, but the call from Scott had brought her back to reality, and she's starting to feel ridiculous again - for intruding on Stiles like this and then kissing him out of nowhere.

"I should probably go," she says, gently releasing his hand. "It's the middle of the night, and I shouldn't even - I should go."

"You don't have to," Stiles says immediately, but she shakes her head, standing up and carrying their empty mugs over to the sink. She sets them down and then turns back to face him, crossing her hands behind her and leaning against the counter. Stiles is still seated at the kitchen table, watching her and looking a little lost. It sets a pang of guilt through her stomach.

"Thank you," she says quietly. "For the tea, and the socks." _And for not thinking I'm crazy,_ she thinks, looking down at her feet. "I'll wash them and bring them back?"

"No problem," he says, waving his hand. "You can - whenever, that's fine."

He follows her out to the hallway in silence, even though she can practically hear the thoughts racing through his head. She knows she's being unfair to him, but she's honestly not sure she could explain what had happened even if she tried. She sort of doesn't want to explain it - was hoping it would just speak for itself.

They stop at the front door, but he doesn't go to open it.

"Lydia," he says instead, his voice pleading. She looks up at him, forces herself to meet his eyes. "Can I just - "

She feels her heart beating in her throat. "Please."

He sucks in a shaky breath and leans toward her, keeping his eyes on hers until the last second before their lips meet, like he's still waiting for her to tell him to stop. She doesn't, though, just sighs into the kiss and allows herself to be pressed against the front door, thrilling at the way his chest pushes up against hers. He slides his arms around her waist, one hand slipping beneath her t-shirt to splay across her lower back. Lydia holds him close, hands traveling from his shoulders up into his hair, making it even messier than it had been before.

"Will you stay?" he murmurs when they break apart, Lydia's head still spinning from the way his teeth had lingered on her lower lip. "I don't mean, like, to do anything, just - stay with me?"

His eyes are so warm, his voice tender in a way that she knows is reserved only for her. She trails her fingers down his arm, watches him shiver under her touch.

She nods. "Okay."

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading :) This is my first attempt at writing them, but I'm already having thoughts about a slightly steamier part two, picking up where this one leaves off. We'll see! Feedback is always very much appreciated.
> 
> Also! I am on tumblr [streetlightserenades.tumblr.com](%E2%80%9Dstreetlightserenades.tumblr.com%E2%80%9D).


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